


Never Look A Gift Wheelman In The Mouth

by Gozer



Series: Teh Due South "BFP" Parody Universe (that's right, I spelled "The" wrong!) [2]
Category: due South
Genre: Christmas, Deliberate Badfic, Farce, Gen, Holidays, Humor, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gozer/pseuds/Gozer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parody version of "Gift of the Wheelman" -- written for a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Look A Gift Wheelman In The Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for a challenge on a Due South fiction list: "Take a serious Due South episode (eg. Juliet is Bleeding) and turn it into a rollicking farce (eg. like Starman)." I'm not sure I'd classify "Starman" as a "rollicking farce" — more like "an occasionally amusing but mostly forced attempt at humor" — but I get the idea.
> 
> Warnings first:
> 
> Warning #1: This story contains scenes of mayhem, violence, and whining.
> 
> Warning #2: This story displays a certain lack of Ye Olde Christmas Spirit. In fact, Dickens, O'Henry, and that sappy newspaper editor who wrote "Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus" would be appalled and probably file a class-action suit against me if they were still alive. (See Warning #4.)
> 
> Warning #3: I adore Ray, but you gotta admit, sometimes he is a *tad* cheap. No flames on the Cheap-Ray jokes that follows, please. A friend once told me that if I was a guy and a cop, I'd practically be Ray, and I can be a little cheap sometimes, so live with it. My friends do.
> 
> Warning #4: Elves will be mocked.

**Chapter One: “Silent Night, Bloody Night”**

It was cold, it was wet; it was your typical nightmare of a “One Shopping Day Before Christmas!” Christmas Eve morning. The clock was ticking down to the big “CD”—that’s “Christmas Day”, not compact disk or certificate of deposit, though either of those would make a perfectly nice gift.

Crowds of shoppers milled about on the icy streets in the downtown shopping section of Chicago, tempers on-edge as they rushed from Neiman Marcus to Carson Pirie Scott, to Filene’s, and back again, searching for the perfect shaving mug for Uncle Augie or slippers to fit Aunt Cookie’s size 12 triple-Es. Burdened as they were with packages and screaming children, no one noticed the Santa standing on a corner next to a big bucket of cash hanging from a tripod, soliciting donations for the poor; at least not much more than they might notice any other Santa standing on any other corner, tolling his bell wearily.

This particular Santa, however, did not toll his shiny brass bell in a particularly weary manner. He tolled... meditatively. You could even say he tolled... thoughtfully. And from time-to-time, his eyes would narrow under his bushy white brows, and he would speak into the large, fluffy white pom-poms that were tied in a bow around his collar....  

* * *

“I’m telling you, Benny; you got the right idea,” said Ray Vecchio, Chicago detective and all-around nice (albeit generally crabby and somewhat cheap) guy. He had a Filene’s Basement bag full of one-size-fits-all earmuffs at the end of one arm, and a large box containing a rented Santa suit under the other.

“Well, uh, Ray; I’m not certain that I... that I quite... uh,” Fraser usually liked it those few-and-far-between moments when Ray agreed with him, but he wasn’t so sure about his friend’s cheerful approval this time around.

“I mean, you tie two popsicle sticks together, shove it in a used orange-juice can, and toss some sphagnum moss on it, and there you go! Instant hand-made, personalized, low-cost Christmas present! Loaded with gobs of sentiment, but it set you back maybe twelve cents, American.”

“I believe you are referring to the rosemary plant I raised from a seedling, Ray, and I was merely recycling that orange-juice can! Waste not, want not, you know. And I’m sure that your dear, sweet Aunt Serose will greatly appreciate the gi—”

“What about that hunk of knotty pine you pulled out of a trash barrel for Frannie—sheer genius! Of course, she’d probably pretty much love it if you were to gift her with a doodle drawn on one of those Chinese restaurant flyers they’re always leaving in our mailbox.”

“Now, Ray; that was a very fine bit of bird’s-eye maple I found in that waste receptacle, it didn’t take much carving at all to coax a team of mares, manes flying, from it with my pocket knife,” Fraser said. He was beginning to worry that he might actually be the skinflint Ray seemed to think he was.

“But the piece-of-resistance has to be that rag-bag you’re fobbing off on Elaine!” chortled Ray as he caught sight of the Riv where he’d parked it in a no-parking zone half an hour ago.

“But Ray, it’s a tea cozy... I followed an authentic Victorian crazy-quilt cozy pattern I once saw in my grandparents’ library; and you know how Elaine loves tea, and....” Fraser’s plaintive attempt at self-defense trailed off as Ray bounced ahead of him enthusiastically, popping the Riv’s trunk and stacking his packages inside.

“...hope you don’t mind if I take a page outa your book and personalize these earmuffs for the kids with a gold magic marker,” Ray continued, ignoring the Mountie’s protests. “We got to stop at O’Henry’s stationery store, then I’ll meet you later on at the old Vecchio manse for one of my ma’s famous Italian dinners, ‘kay?”

The Mountie sighed. “Whatever you say, Ray.” 

* * *

O’Henry’s Stationery and Fine Pens had its share of Christmas shoppers, but it was a higher class of customer who perused the hundred-dollar blank books, the sheets of marbleized paper imported from Italy, and the glass cases of prohibitively expensive gold-tipped fountain pens than could be found outside on the mean streets of Chicago’s downtown shopping district. Ray found the metallic markers by the register. He picked up a gold one.

“Man! Three-ninety-five! How come they can make a Bic for fifty cents and I still got the one I bought three years ago, but this marker that’s gonna clog after one use costs almost four bucks!?”

“I don’t know, Ray,” said Fraser, only half-listening. He was staring hard at a rack of hand-made paper, trying to figure out how to duplicate the process in his bathroom. “You know, Ray... we could recycle the lint from your mother’s dryer and create our own Christmas cards from scratch next year!”

“Yeah, sure, Benny... _what_?” was Ray’s less-than-cogent comeback. Benny would have clarified his admittedly odd suggestion, but at that moment, a figure dressed in a red Santa suit trimmed with white fluff burst through O’Henry’s front door.

It was manifestly not Jolly Old Saint Nick, because the red suit hung from a youthfully skinny body as opposed to being stretched across a belly as round as a bowl full of jelly, and he wore a ski-mask pulled down over his face. Plus, he was waving a gun.

“DON’T MOVE!” the figure demanded through the ski-mask’s mouth-hole, then, “DROP TO THE FLOOR!”

Nobody did anything.

“WELL?” the figure screamed. “I SAID, DROP TO THE FLOOR!”

“Ah, I think I can explain our dilemma,” said the ever-helpful Mountie, drawing the thief’s attention to himself. It worked, the skinny figure swung around to cover him with the Saturday Night Special. “You see, young man; first you told us not to move. Then you told us to drop to the floor; i.e., 'to move.' We’re in something of a quandary as to which direction to follow—”

So saying, Fraser’s arm whipped out, his fore-arm smashing heavily into the ersatz Santa’s gun hand. The gun went skittering across the freshly-waxed floor. Ray dove for it, knocking over a stand of engraved greeting cards as he went sliding.

Unfortunately, he didn’t quite make it, his fingers snatching at, but missing, the little gun by a mere half-inch. He lay there, blinking in dismay as a shower of expensive bits of cardboard flurried down on him as if in a gentle snow-fall, watching a pair of small, wrinkled hands pick up the weapon.

“You little creep!” the blue-haired little old lady who was now waving his gun around screamed. “Don’t you got no Christmas spirit!?” She aimed it in the thief’s general direction and pumped out a few bullets, several of which hit and shattered the front window. Fraser (and the rest of the store’s customers) had joined Ray on the floor by then, though the thief showed the presence of mind to quit the establishment speedily by way of the broken window.

“Uh, ma’am? ...ma’am?  MA’AM!” piped up Fraser from where he lay huddled down by the little old lady’s tennis shoe-clad feet.

“Whaddaya want!” yelled the old lady, hyped up on adrenaline, as she swung around to cover the prone Mountie.

“Ma’am? How do you do, I’m Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Please, ma’am; might I, please, have that fire-arm now? Please?”

The old lady squinted down at him for a moment, then, one-handed, balanced the pair of cat-eye glasses that hung around her neck on a chain on her nose. She stared at him, then started to cackle. “That’s how I like my men,” she quipped. “At my feet and beggin’.” She held the gun out, essentially pointing it right at him as she did, and Fraser scrambled to his feet to relieve her of it quickly.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

“Don’t you dare thank that crazy old hag!” said Ray, struggling to his feet. “I’m gonna book her on a three-fifteen, a four-fifteen, and an eighteen-eighty-three: carrying an unlicensed weapon, discharging a weapon in a confined area, and littering!”

“Ray! It behooves us to show a little respect for those of advanced years, for they possess a wisdom that will only be revealed to us in the fullness of time!”

“But she let the bad guy get away,” Ray whined. In his heart, he knew he wasn’t going to arrest the old broad. No prosecuting attorney in his right mind would pursue a case like this, especially during the holiday season; a cop would just find himself getting yelled at, and if his ma caught wind of it, he’d really be in trouble. Ray avoided looking the Mountie in the eye and brushed at his wrinkled Armani pant-legs, muttering, “That’s another eighteen bucks at the cleaners down the tubes....” **  
**

 

**Chapter Two: “It Came Upon a Midnight, Clearly Up To No Good”**

Blinded by tears, the would-be thief ran down the slippery street, narrowly avoiding disaster as he wove his way though the crowd, his Santa-sleeves flapping in the breeze. He’d tried planning and executing a simple store-heist, and had failed to get the cash, failed to keep his gun, in fact he’s even failed to get anyone in the store to do a single thing he’d ordered them to do, thus making him a text-book example of an “F” for “failure.” If only he’d had a little help from his dear, old—

_WHAM!_

The young man full-frontally crashed into another, rather larger and more solid, red-suited figure who had similarly been running in panic-mode (but from the opposite direction,) sending them both flying, ass-over-teakettle, into a snow bank.

“Hey! Can’t ya see I’m walkin’ here!” the young man started to yell, but the words choked in his throat. The collision had not merely caused incredible pain in certain unmentionable parts of his body, but had dashed the tears from his eyes, and the metaphorical scales having fallen, he could see who it was he’d full-frontally crashed into. The Santa-suited crashee was none other than his dear, old—

“DAD!?”

“Sheee-it,” was his old man’s only response before lumbering to his feet and continuing on his journey.

“Awww, man,” muttered the kid. It was the perfect end to the perfect heist. Now he really felt lousy. He pulled himself wearily out of the snow bank and hailed a cab, then remembered he didn’t have his wallet in the pocketless rented Santa suit. With a sigh, he turned and shambled away from the cursing cab driver. 

* * *

“I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not gonna take it any more!” announced Ray, dropping heavily into his office chair. He pulled up a crime form on his computer and began to fill it out.

“No, Ray,” said Fraser solemnly, easing himself somewhat more gracefully into the seat next to the desk. “Hello, Elaine. Merry Christmas,” he greeted the civilian aide.

Elaine dipped her chin in recognition and smiled, then tilted her head in the direction of the seething Vecchio. “What’s with him?” she asked her favorite Mountie.

“Ah,” said Fraser. “Earlier today, a young man attempted to hold-up at gun-point the store in which we were shopping. We managed to disarm the perpetrator, but he got away and about three-thousand dollars worth of damage was done to O’Henry’s Stationery and Fine Pens.”

Elaine’s tongue found a home in her right cheek for a moment as she looked Fraser up and down. Then she said, “Wow, three thousand dollars worth of pens and paper were trashed? This O’Henry guy must be doing an awful lot of writing, or are we talking about valuable antique pens?”

“No, no, Elaine; ‘O’Henry’s Stationery and Fine Pens’ is the name of a store. Most of that figure is the cost of replacing a rather large front window, which was shattered by gun-fire in the melee.”

“Insurance will cover it! Insurance will cover it!” said Ray. He hunched over his keyboard, typing furiously. “...and I wouldn’t call an old lady waving a gun around a ‘melee.’ She’s mocking you, Fraser; she knows it’s a store.”

The Mountie turned guileless blue eyes on her, looking not un-like a deer in the headlights.

Elaine snorted, though in a lady-like manner. “I’m just teasing you, Fraser. I’m glad you’re not hurt. I know those little old ladies waving guns can be tough.”

Fraser looked grateful. “Thank you kindly for your good thoughts, Elaine.”

Ray pushed the button that filed his report on the mainframe and looked up from his computer. “I hate you both,” he said with great finality.

At that moment, the Duck Brothers came into the precinct, dragging a hand-cuffed Santa Claus between them.

Ray looked surprised at this development. “Hey, what’s with you guys? I filed my report less than a minute ago. You’re gonna spoil your reps as the worst pair of screw-ups on the force if you continue with this efficiency kick. And anyway, that guy’s not nearly skinny enough.”

“Talkin’ like a loser loony as usual, Vecchio,” sniped Guardino, shoving the cursing Santa into the chair by Huey’s desk. “Don’t you know nothin’ about the bank heist that went down about an hour ago? A gang of Santas held up The First National Bank of Chicago, then scattered to the four winds when the cops showed up.”

Ray blinked in surprise.

“I’m not certain a collective of Saint Nicolases would be termed a ‘gang,’ Detective Guardino; I believe a ‘troupe’ of Santas or perhaps a ‘squad’ might be more nearly correct....”

Ray interrupted Fraser in mid-monograph. “Jeez! What, was there a movie or TV show about guys disguised as Santa Claus committing crimes? Because I think we got a copy-cat crime wave going here.”

And as the day wore on, the precinct filled with more and more men dressed as Santa Claus; holly-bedecked Santas filling out reports, roly-poly Santas standing in line-ups, white-whiskered Santas screaming at their lawyers on the payphone, sweating Santas being grilled in the interrogation room. You could term them a gang, a troupe, or a squad; whatever you called them, collectively there certainly were a lot of them. But none of them were the bank robbers, and none of them were Ray’s skinny thief.

“...love me tender, love me sweeeeet; never let me goooooo....”

“Elves! I said ELVES!” 

* * *

Chief Special Agent Grumble-toes, bell clutched in one clammy hand, peered out of the dark Chicago alley from behind a dumpster as two uniformed police officers threw a jolly Salvation Army Santa against a wall and patted him down professionally for weapons. He shuddered; it reminded him of the time several centuries ago when they were first starting out, when Burgermeister Meisterburger had outlawed toys and put a price on young Kris Kringle’s head. The special agent took one of the fluffy white pom-poms at the ends of the bow around his neck and spoke into it. “Agents Fuzzy-chin, Works-with-wood, Hobby-horse! Agent Mamma-doll! Agent Shiny-button-eyes, report! By Santa’s whiskers, report!”

Much to his relief, the special agents of Santa’s Little Secret Service began calling in. Fortunately, they’d all so far managed to evade the police roundup of North-pole-related denizens that seemed so otherwise terrifyingly efficient. Not so fortunately, this made their presence on the streets all the more obvious: they stuck out like sore, red thumbs. Their mission was in serious trouble. The chief special agent had a decision to make. He made it.

“Continue to evade local police procedure as best you can and reconnoiter at the safe-house. Repeat: reconnoiter at destination Zero-zero-one.” He dropped the pom-pom and melted into the shadows. They were good agents; he had faith in their training and fortitude. They’d reach the safe-house, dammit! They had to! 

* * *

Happy sat, alone in the dank little fourth floor walk-up he shared with his father, Willie; grinding his teeth. In case you hadn’t figured it out, Happy and Willie were the two felons who had committed crimes that day dressed in Santa suits. Like father, like son. Despite his given name, Happy was not happy. He sat in the dark; a slight, blond youth radiating anger, waiting for his dad to show up in order to give him his Christmas present: a great, big, fat guilt trip.

Willie showed up, panting from dragging his bulk up four flights of stairs, a large raincoat covering his Santa suit. The first words he gasped, after he’d staggered over to the sink and sucked down two glasses of water, were, “It ain’t what it looks like!”

“Well, it looks like you blew off your only son and went out robbin’ banks with your old San Quentin buddies, the Ferengi brothers!”

“Okay, okay; it’s what it looks like. But I was doing it for you!” A large man, Willie fell heavily into the only stuffed chair in the room. Springs twanged in alarm and gouts of dust flew out of it on impact.

“Yeah, right! And how is ditching my ass and doin’ crimes with your friends a good thing for me?” Happy’s lower lip stuck out and quivered. It was not a good look for him.

His father reached out a hand, a touching entreaty in the near-dark. “It’s my last crime, Happy! My last and best! I’m setting it up in such a way that we get the money, get out of the business, and fix it so the Ferengi brothers never bother us again!”

Happy sat up at that. “We gonna kill ‘em, Pa? You ‘n me, together? ‘Cause I got a gun; you and me’ll just up and shoot ‘em when they least expect it!”

“NO!” the not-so-jolly fat man exploded. “Blast it, boy! What’s with you and your mind always on killin’ and stealin’ and doin’ crimes!?”

Wordlessly, the boy grabbed up his jacket from the back of a chair and slammed his way out of the apartment. Willie could hear his son’s feet beating an angry retreat down the rickety wooden hall stairs.

“Somethin’ about that boy ain’t right,” he said to nobody.

 

**Chapter Three: “Jingle Hell Rock”**

“I should convert to Judaism,” said Ray, totaling up his check book and frowning at the figure he got. “No more Christmas gifts.” He was seated at the nerve center of the Vecchio household, the kitchen table.

“You couldn’t hack the eight days of gifts for Chanukah, you cheapskate,” said Francesca. “Gimme a finger.”

“You remember Marty Kimmelman, my best friend in high school? He said it was eight days of socks and chocolate coins. I could handle socks and chocolate coins, easy.  Uh, ‘give me a finger,’ Frannie? You don’t usually leave yourself open like that.”

“Here, slime ball, on the bow!” Frannie held out a beautifully-wrapped package. She’d been struggling with the curling ribbon for the last five minutes. “I’m wrapping Ma’s gifts to the kids, because she’s been so busy baking.” She smiled at her mother, who was dropping dough into a pot of hot oil, making _zeppoli_.

“Too late to change that ‘naughty’ into a ‘nice’ on Santa’s list, babe.” Despite his sarcasm, he stuck out a forefinger, holding the ribbon down while Frannie tied the bow.

His mother kissed him on the back of the head on his bald spot, saying, “ _Caro mio_ , just what I like to see; my son helping his baby sister.”

“Don’t get used to it, Ma; it’s just temporary Christmas spirit!” Despite her harsh words, Frannie’s tone was merely teasing, not angry. “So... the Mountie is coming over tonight?”

“Yeah, Frannie; so don’t be expecting any more gifts from me this year.”

“Ray, for you to get off the hook for laying out cash for a present, you’ll have to hog-tie him and stick him under the tree for me. Hey, Ma; I’ll hide these in my closet until tonight, okay?” She gathered up the presents and left.

Ray totaled up the figures in check book again, and briefly considered possible ways of maneuvering, finessing, drugging, or blackmailing Fraser into a pair of handcuffs and under the Vecchio’s tree, but dismissed the idea as the image might be too disturbing for the Vecchio children to handle at this point in their young lives, let alone Ma. Pity, it would have saved him quite a bundle. Back to the drawing board.

* * *

Humphrey and Wendell, a.k.a., “The Ferengi Brothers”, were not a pair of happy campers by any means, both in general and specific. Generally, they were a duo of evil, scheming, scamming Grinches all year long with no regard for anyone but each other; the kind of creeps who wouldn’t steal candy from a baby because they liked the idea of a small child with cavities. In specific, they were particularly ticked off because the recent bank heist they’d pulled off with their old San Quentin buddies, Willie “The Fat Man” Loman and Sammy “The Tombstone” Spade, had not gone off as planned... or, at least, not as _they_ ’ had planned.

Sammy lay, supine among a field of red-and-green bits of wrapping paper, oozing blood from several small holes. It was the only movement anyone was going to see from Sammy ever again, because Sammy was primed for a long stay under his cool mob nickname. Moments ago, his last words had been, “How was I supposed to know you was allergic to nuts, Wendell?”

A large, genial-seeming, red-headed man, Humphrey had ripped open his box of Fannie Farmer’s Best Nutty Bridge Mix, and was enjoying it mightily. He wasn’t allergic to nuts, and knew he was going to get Wendell’s prezzie eventually, so he didn’t mind chowing down his box of chocolate-covered nuts straight off. “I don’t suppose you might admit you over-reacted a tad, Wendell?” he said, indicating the corpse.

His smaller, feistier brother, dark hair slicked back from one, heavy uni-brow over slightly mad green eyes, spat, “You saw, Humphrey! It was attempted murder! He would have condemned me to death by asphyxiation!”

“I can scarce believe, dear brother, that the gifting of a fine box of Fannie Farmer’s Best Nutty Bridge Mix would be interpreted by any but yourself as attempted murder. Why, it’s delicious. I thought it very sweet of him to remember us this Yuletide season.”

“You’ve never experienced anaphylactic shock, old chum,” Wendell said. He slumped, gun drooping. “Oh, I suppose I did over-react. Ah, well; no use crying over spilt milk.”

“That’s the ticket, dear brother; what’s done is done!” Humphrey pulled a red box with a large, gold bow out from under his seat. “Can’t have you out of the holiday spirit! Here’s my gift to you! All the best felicitations of the day!”

Wendell actually got misty-eyed. “Who’s the best brother a lad ever had, then?” he asked rhetorically. He pulled a box from his coat pocket, green with a silver bow. “For you! I do hope you will agree that good things come in small packages!”

They ripped open their gifts, more bits of red and green paper joining those with the corpse on the floor.

“Why! As I live and breathe! It’s a hand-tooled shoulder holster for my nine-millimeter Glock!” said Wendell.

“I know it’s your favorite gun,” said Humphrey, beaming. “And what a gift you’ve gotten for me! An elegant, slim silver case for my lock picks! Now, go and get your Glock, I want to see how it looks in the holster!”

“I... I must confess, my dear brother; I hocked the Glock to buy your lock-pick case. So you go and get your tools, I want to see if they all fit in the case!”

“I, too, have a confession, Wendell... I hocked my favorite lock picks to buy you the shoulder holster!”

The two brothers basked in the glow of a fraternal love that had caused them to go out and sell the things they held in highest regard in order to get the perfect gift for one another.

“Don’t worry, Wendell; when we catch Willie and extract our ill-gotten gains from him, we’ll both immediately go and redeem our belongings from the pawn shop. These fine gifts will gain a great deal of use in the coming years!”

“Yes, the future truly is bright with promise,” Wendell agreed with his older brother. “First we catch Willie. Then we get our belongings out of hock. Of course, before we go to the pawn shop, we kill Willie.”

“Oh, killing Willie goes entirely without saying, yes!”

The two nodded in brotherly agreement over their List of Things To Do Today.

 

**Chapter Four: “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town... And He’s Gonna Get Ya!”**

Fraser sat at his kitchen table, wolf snoring gently at his feet, wrapping presents. True to his frugal upbringing, he was wrapping them in all sorts of recycled materials: construction paper the Gamez children had drawn on, foreign language newspapers, the bags his vegetables from Chinatown had come in; unusual papers and fabrics he’d been collecting in the last month or so. The ribbon he used was similarly recycled: bits of twine, raffia, lengths of pastel-colored wool too short for Mrs. Gamez to use in her knitting, and shiny string from the bakery. Dried flowers, acorns, or found objects, like tiny toys from a box of Cracker Jacks, decorated the outsides of the packages. The resulting gifts looked like works of art, gifts in and of themselves, let alone the hand-made items concealed within.

_Thump! Wooga-wooga-wooga! Rrrrrr... rrrrrr.... ding-ding-ding-ding...._

Fraser sighed... perhaps the unusually jubilant Ray had been right. Was it possible that he, Benton Fraser, was fooling himself that a hand-made gift, bespeaking of thought and time spent, not money, was the best present?  Was he nothing more than a tightwad, a miser, a pinch-penny... a “chuff”?  He’d looked up “cheapskate” in the coverless Roget’s Thesaurus he’d bought in a used-book store for fifty cents, then created and stitched on an attractive new book-jacket made from a pair of old leather pants discarded by the drag queen in apartment 5J as a gift for the young writer who lived in apartment 2A.

_Thump! Ratchet-ratchet-ratchet! Ta-pocket-ta-pocket-ta-pocket...._

Fraser had been hearing all sorts of odd noises from the apartment above since last Monday, when the new occupants had moved in. He hadn’t wished to intrude on their privacy, but perhaps Christmas Eve might be a good time to bring them a jar of the preserves he’d made in August—using recycled jars and perfectly good, if bruised, cast-off peaches from the Fruit Mart, of course—giving him an excellent chance to do a little neighborly snooping. He went to put on his dress reds.

_Thumpity-thump-thump! Whirrrrr, whirrrrrrrr, rrrrrrrrrrrr...._

Consumed by curiosity, the Mountie took the stairs two at a time, a large jar of “Preserving the Peace Peach Preserves” tucked under one arm. He and the Gamez children had spent a jolly rainy November Sunday afternoon drawing all the labels; Mario had come up with that one. (Do I have to tell you that the labels were from Ray’s precinct, and came from the label sheets that were half-used after running them through a computer printer?)

He knocked at the door to the apartment above his, trying to listen to the noises without giving the appearance of eavesdropping. The noises stopped. The door cracked open about an inch and an eye, located roughly half-way up the door, peered out at him.

“Well, hello there, young man. Is your mother or father home? I’m your neighbor from downstairs and I’d like to wish you all a Merry Christmas, or give you my general good wishes for the holiday season if, indeed, Christmas is not a holiday you and your family celebrate...,” Fraser trailed off.

The door had swung all the way open, revealing a small man, not a boy. He was dressed in short green pants, red shoes with curling toes with bells on the tips, a striped peaked cap, a red-and-green doublet over a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and he needed a shave. A stub of a cigar stuck out of his mouth. He eyed the Mountie up and down, then spoke around his cigar. “Hey, kid. I know you. I remember you from Santa’s ‘Nice’ list!” He turned and called over his shoulder, “Hey, guys! Benton Fraser’s here. Yeah, _that_ Benton Fraser!”

Suddenly the doorway was crowded with a whole gang, er, I mean, “troupe” of little men, all dressed like Santa’s elves, and, indeed, that is exactly what they were. They stared at Fraser as if he were some sort of celebrity, and to them, he was. Santa’s Naughty and Nice lists were taken very seriously by these professional elves and, as a child, Benton Fraser had topped the Nice list longer than anybody else ever had.

“Benton! Benton, my boy; c’mon in! Ho, ho, ho!” A tall, round, white-haired man, clad in ermine-trimmed red, his belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly, gestured a grand welcome to the equally red-clad (sans the ermine) Mountie. The elves relieved him of his peach preserves, hustled him into the apartment, and deposited the stunned Fraser into a big, comfy chair... the apartment! What a transformation! It looked as if someone had transplanted Santa’s elves’ toyshop from the North Pole to a bad neighborhood in Chicago!  The walls had been covered by wallpaper strewn with candy canes and happy gingerbread men; evergreen wreaths and holly festoons decorated the windows; and charmingly rough-hewn tables, scattered about with half-finished toys, were set up in rows in the center of the room.

“Santa? Santa... you... you’re really Santa Claus?” sputtered the Mountie. He looked around. Good heavens, there were one, two, three, four, five... six Santas ringed ‘round him, staring at him. “You’re all Santa? Is that how you make it down every chimney on Christmas Eve? Dividing up the territory amongst yourselves?”

The first Santa who had spoken bowed to Fraser. “No, young man; I’m very sorry to say we are none of us Santa. We are the freakishly tall, fat elves who make up Santa’s Little Secret Service! This my crack team of Special Agents! Allow me to introduce Agents Fuzzy-chin, Works-with-wood, Hobby-horse, Mamma-doll, and Shiny-button-eyes; I am Chief Special Agent Grumble-toes. We are in a spot of bother and would appreciate the help of the young man who was so good, he was at the top of Santa’s “Nice” list eight years running—a world record! Only a small girl, later canonized by the church, was able to knock you off the very top of the list that ninth year, though you were a close second, my boy!”

“You’re Santa’s Little Secret Service, and you’re on, what, some sort of mission? And you need my help?” Fraser looked around the circle of hopeful faces. “Well, my goodness; by all means, tell me about it!”

* * *

“Ray. Ray. Ray... _RAY!”_ the Mountie called to get his best buddy’s attention. Ray was up on the roof of his house, fixing a string of lights that had come loose.

“FRAY-sier! You trying to kill me? Fer Christ’s sake, I’m on top of a freakin’ house here!” Ray called down. The Mountie’s head popped over the side of the roof: he’d been climbing while Ray’d been crabbing. “JEEZ, Benny!”

“Ray, I had a most remarkable afternoon!” said Fraser, beaming as he hauled himself over the gutter. “Santa’s Little Secret Service has a safe-house in the apartment over mine. Apparently Kris Kringle had a heart attack last week—well, for goodness’ sake, the poor man was almost five-hundred years old, he was quite obese for four-hundred-fifty of them—and the elves are on a mission to find a replacement Santa Claus before midnight tonight. Using means both scientific and magical, they have it narrowed down to one man, a man who lives here in Chicago! But they’re having trouble locating him!  Complicating matters, the police are making it particularly difficult for them to move about the city.... They need our help, Ray.”

“I told you not to touch my Aunt Ginny’s whiskey balls. They are not candy! She really means business with them things.”

“No, really—Ray, I told them you wouldn’t believe me! They told me to tell you that if you hadn’t used your sister Maria’s training bra to launch water balloons in the sixth grade, you would have gotten that bike you’d asked Santa for... um, Ray? Wouldn’t Maria have been awfully young for a training bra when you were in the sixth grade?”

“She was an early bloomer.  Hey!  Where’d you hear about that!”

“As I said, Ray; Santa’s Little Secret Service told me. They’re the ones who know if you’ve been bad or good.”

“One of the kids must have told you!”

“No, Ray! It was Santa’s Little Secret Service! They also told me...,” and here, Fraser, afraid someone else might hear the terrible thing he was about to say to and about his best friend, leaned forward and whispered in Ray’s ear....

... _well_ , there just had to be a Santa’s Little Secret Service because there was no way anyone but Santa’s Little Secret Service could have known about _that_.

“Oh. My. God,” said Ray, “I believe. I believe in Santa’s Little Secret Service. I believe they came to you for help in finding a new Kris Kringle. I also believe in Zuzu’s petals and the Easter Bunny; and in The Great Pumpkin, while I’m at it.”

“That’s just silly, Ray; Charles Schultz invented The Great Pumpkin.”

“Benny, we’re on a roof. With one shove, I could find myself permanently on Santa’s Naughty list. I believe you... but don’t push it.”

“No, Ray. Could you drive me to a warehouse out on Route 34, Ray?”

“Sure, Benny.”

 

**Chapter Five: “Hark! The Herald Angels Scream Bloody Murder”**

Willie Loman was a clever man if ever there was one, if not about people, at least about physics, geometry, and wood shop. In fact, those were the only three courses he had passed in high school. He was using everything he’d learned about all three subjects in his current endeavor. He sat on one of the rafters in a drafty old warehouse, looping a chain attached to a barrel through a pulley. First he’d rid a grateful world of the Ferengi brothers, then he’d mend his relationship with his only son, stop him from embarking on a life of crime like his father. He’d have all the time in the world to make sure his kid grew up straight and clean and good—after he did this dirty deed. He tugged the chain gently, attaching the end to a garage door opener-engine so that so that a quick jab of a button would bring the contents of the barrel down on whoever stood underneath, then shinnied down a rope to the ground. He really was quite graceful for such a large man. He looked up and around, and what he saw was good....

“Excuse me, sir?”

“What!?” Willie nearly jumped out of his skin.

A tall, good-looking young man with an open, honest face, wearing a doorman’s uniform, stood before him, blue eyes wide with good humor and friendliness. Somehow he’d gotten into the warehouse without Willie hearing him. “Are you Mr. Willie Loman?”

“Ye— uh. Maybe. Who’s asking?”

The polite doorman smiled. “If I’m not mistaken, you _are_ Willie Loman. I understand what they see in you, sir. I’m here to represent a company that would like to hire you on as... well, as its CEO, you could say. Have you ever seen ‘Miracle on 34th Street’?”

_CRASH!_

The back doors flew open, and a pair of forbidding silhouettes appeared, back-lit in the doorway. The Ferengi brothers! Half an hour early! DAMN!

“Kid! Get outa here, quick!”

The doorman only looked grim and shook his head. “Why, I don’t believe I will leave you, Mr. Loman. I suspect you’re in trouble, and I’m going to help you any way I can.”

“You can help me by getting the hell out of here!” But it was too late!

Humphrey; broad, genial face masking a black heart; heavy winter coat masking a sawed-off shotgun; spoke first. “My dear friend, Willie! How nice of you to invite my brother and myself to this holiday shin-dig of yours!” He pulled out the shotgun and primed it.

“Yes,” Humphrey’s idiot brother, Wendell, agreed, as usual concurring with any opinion his older brother might express, “Yes, indeedy-dumpling; it was nice of you to think of us. And I suppose you have a prezzie for us this lovely Christmas Eve? I believe the papers said some half-million dollars was taken from the bank this morning?” He clutched a crowbar in his grubby paws.

“You’ll never see a penny of it,” said Willie, stepping in front of the mad doorman as if to protect him.

“Oh, but Willie, my dear old friend! ‘Tis the season for giving.” Humphrey took a step forward, a very important step that placed him directly under a barrel. “Don’t make us _take_!”

A tall, bald man in a nice Armani winter coat came in through the back door behind the Ferengi brothers, waving his arms and saying, “Frasier! I’m out in the Riv, cooling my heels; what gives? Does the guy want the job or not! Hey, did you notice it smells like a donut shop blew up in here? C’mon, Frasier; you know I got to be back to the house before the kids go to be—”

Willie pushed the button on the garage door opener and _SPLASH!_ The delicious contents of six barrels of brandy-soaked plum-pudding came crashing down on the Ferengi brothers and the tall, bald man. So much for that nice Armani winter coat.

“What the—”

“Willie, you son of a—”

“JEEZ!”

“Don’t anybody move,” warned Willie, lighter held high. “I think you know what will happen to all this alcohol if I were to toss this flame on it?” It was all going wrong—terribly, horribly wrong—with the introduction of these two innocents into the situation, but he didn’t see any other way out of it than to continue with the plan....

“You’re not going to do anything foolish, Mr. Loman,” said the doorman behind him.

The hand that held the lighter shook, but Willie said, “Don’t interfere! They’d just as soon kill us as look at us!”

“He’s right, you know–”

“Hush, Wendell! Now, Willie—dear friend Willie! We can work out this misunderstanding!” Humprey’s phony placating smile was out of place; on that face it looked positively ghoulish.

“Somebody is paying for the dry-cleaning bill and this time, Frasier, it ain’t me!”

Suddenly, under the sheen of the brandy that stained his face, Wendell went ashen. He dropped the crowbar with a soggy clatter, then fell to his knees, clutching at his throat and gasping. It was as if invisible hands were throttling him.

“WENDELL!” screamed Humphrey. He, too, dropped to his knees, but it was to loosen his brother’s collar. “Omigod! Wendell! Somebody help my brother, Wendell!”

Willie found the hand that held the lighter was suddenly cupped by the rather large hands of the doorman; the lighter was then gently removed from his grasp, to disappear into the fellow’s pocket. Across the room, by the stricken brothers, the tall, bald man had his cell phone out; he was calling for an ambulance.

“Whatever is wrong with that man?” the doorman asked.

“Aside from being a psychotic sociopath with murderous tendencies, I have no idea,” said Willie.

“I’m not a doctor, but he appears to be going into anaphylactic shock.”

“NUTS! Wendell is allergic to nuts!!!” screamed Humphrey.

“Good lord!” said Willie. “You know, when my mother made her traditional brandy-soaked plum pudding, she always added plenty of crushed walnuts! And so... so did I.”

“Yeah, well; that would explain it, wouldn’t it? Jeez, Benny; the elves want this guy to be Santa Claus? They got a whole five hours ‘til midnight, ya think they could find someone a little better suited for the job by then? Or maybe even just not flat-out crazy?”

 

**Chapter Six: “Away In A Manger... Somebody Appears To Have Hidden the Murder Weapon Under The Straw”**

The EMT guys had taken care of Wendell Ferengi, a shot of epinephrine handling most of the symptoms of anaphylactic shock. He was carried off in an ambulance, hand-cuffed to the gurney, and would be booked for armed robbery later. Humphrey was dragged off by the uniforms, protesting his and his brother’s innocence, and blaming Willie for the Santa Claus bank heist earlier that day.

“I had nothing to do with that,” said Willie. “I have an alibi. I was with my son at the time.”

“Come, Ray; we must transport Mr. Loman to Santa’s Little Secret Service as quickly as possible. There’s not a moment to lose.”

Ray shook his head and _tsk_ ed at Fraser. “See, what I’m finding hard to believe here, Fraze, is that you—you of all people—are willing to let this guy Loman walk, not only for this morning’s bank heist, but for the attempted murder of those two garbanzo beans.”

“Look at it this way, Ray;” said Fraser, “Mr. Loman is about to be taken away, separated from society as it were; removed to a frozen wasteland where he will spend the rest of his life working diligently for the good of mankind. True, he won’t be making license plates; but making toys for children is a worthwhile cause that will keep him busy and out of trouble.”

“You know, I hadn’t thought of it that way, Benny.”

They bundled the world's next Santa into the Riv, where Willie borrowed Ray’s cell phone to call Happy, begging him to meet them at the safe house above Fraser’s apartment. Grudgingly, the boy agreed.

The elves were overjoyed to meet the new boss’ son and totally missed Happy’s bad attitude in their enthusiasm. They escorted him to the same comfy chair Fraser had sat in, put a hassock under his feet, and a cup of hot chocolate in his hands; then sang Christmas carols at him until his father, Ray, and Fraser got there.

“So, you’re the next Santa Claus,” sneered the surly youth when his father appeared at the door, the two policemen in tow. “Guess that explains why you named me after a freakin’ Dwarf.”

“Little person!” corrected Grumble-toes. The kid’s lousy ‘tude was beginning to sink in.

Ray had stiffened, recognizing the kid’s voice as the voice of the skinny Santa with the gun in O’Henry’s that morning, but Fraser put a hand on Ray’s arm, gesturing him to silence.

“Ain’t it business as usual, Pops,” Happy continued bitterly. “You ditchin’ me to take off for some sweet gig. Typical!”

“Oh, well if that’s the problem, why don’t you just come along!” said Grumble-toes, relieved.

“Of course Happy’s coming along! He’s my son!” said Willie. “You know I’d never leave without you, even for the honor of becoming Santa Claus, Happy. You’ll come with me to the North Pole, won’t you?”

The kid sniffed and rubbed an arm across his teary eyes. “Depends, old man. Are there chicks at the North Pole?”

Grumble-toes looked confused. “Well, yes. There are chicks at the North Pole. But I fail to understand—”

“...then, yeah; I’m with ya, Dad! I’ll come with ya to the North Pole. My old man! Santa Claus!” Father and son hugged in a manly fashion, pounding one another on the back as they did so.

“I didn’t see any chick elves around here, so I gotta admit I was wondering,” Ray said quietly to Fraser, not wanting to intrude on the touching moment.

Grumble-toes heard them. “‘Chick... elves’? I don’t understand. We do have a fine chicken coop with many eggs and chicks at the Pole. But we don’t have chicken-elves. How bizarre.”

Fraser nodded knowledgeably. “Ah, I understand; it’s a problem of terminology. Common street parlance has the definition of ‘chick’ as ‘a young woman, generally of an attractive mien.’ Are there no female elves in Santa’s Workshop?” he asked.

The tall elf shrugged. “Why, no. Elves reproduce by parthenogenesis as needed.”

“Now, there’s a nice little surprise for that whiny little creep on Christmas morning,” Ray chuckled. Then he was struck by a thought. “Fraser, would you go and, oh, I don’t know, go and help the elves clean the joint up or something? I got to talk to this guy here in private for a sec.”

Fraser looked mystified, but nodded and walked away to tidy up a toy table.

When they were alone, Ray put a conspiratorial arm about the shoulders of the tall elf and said, “I got a quick question for you; Grumble-toes, was it? Grumble-toes, Fraser said he was at the top of Santa’s Nice list for, like, most of his childhood, is that true?”

“Why, yes! Your friend Fraser is quite the famous boy up at the North Pole, having achieved an accomplishment no other child has ever approximated; we’re really all quite enthu—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ray interrupted the elf in mid-gush. “So here’s the thing: if Young Benton Fraser was Tops of the Pops in Santa’s Workshop all that time, how come he never got anything but books for Christmas?

Grumble-toes turned an attractive shade of vermilion that almost matched his Santa-suit. “Um... well... yeah, about that. See, we just didn’t believe it. I mean, it was eerie. He was too good, it was unreal. He creeped us out. We assumed he’d figured out some way to beat the system, that he was cheating. So all those books were something in the nature of a lesson to teach him the error of his ways. By the time we realized he was on the level, we felt really bad, but it was too late to make it up to him.  He wasn’t a child anymore. Regrettable, but there you have it.”

Ray smiled that luminous Ray Vecchio smile, the one that turned him from a frog into a prince. “Grumble-toes, my man... we need to talk about those nine years of presents you owe Fraser.”

* * *

Ray was in his element that night. By breaking a few speed limits, he and Fraser had gotten to the Vecchio home before the children had gone to bed, and he’d been able to sneak up to his room to change into the Santa suit he’d rented that morning.

“Ho, ho, ho!” Ray cried through the cotton-wool beard. The children clustered around him enthusiastically, laughing, screaming with joy, and crabbing (they were Vecchios, after all.) After handing out the presents in his red velvet bag “From Santa”, he began pulling out presents from under the tree.

“Here’s a gift for little Maria from your Uncle Ray, there ya go, sweet-heart; and one for Danny, also from your Uncle Ray; your Uncle Ray is a great guy, isn’t he, Danny? And here’s a gift for sweet little Camilla, who was a particularly good girl this year. It’s also from your Uncle Ray. Pasquale! Here’s your gift from your Uncle Ray....”

There were quite a few presents that Christmas Eve from Uncle Ray for the kids under the tree... and, much to Fraser’s surprise, none of them were one-size-fits-all earmuffs. Instead, there was a fuzzy polar bear with a carved wooden face and paws, a train set, several wooden puzzle-boxes, a delicate tea-set, lovely porcelain dolls and doll clothing, dollhouse furniture; all manner of fine hand-made gifts that the children crowed over with joy.

“...and here is a gift for you, Vito, from your Uncle Ray. You’re gonna like this one, it’s a fake badge, a police whistle, finger-print set, and a set of hand-cuffs with a key, so you can make like you’re a cop, just like your Uncle Ray! I know you’re a big boy and won’t get ink all over your grandma’s house, or she’ll kill you where you stand.”

Vito took the box and ripped it open enthusiastically, then attempted to arrest his little sister for “being a big, stupid dork.”

While the children played with their Christmas Eve presents, so happy they weren’t even thinking about the stash they’d be ripping open first thing tomorrow morning, Santa-Ray slipped away, Fraser following close behind.

Two ghosts had watched it all, from Ray’s entrance as Santa Claus, to his exit.

“I didn’t bring my son up to be a jerk,” muttered the first ghost. It was the ghost of Carmine Vecchio, comb-over, cheesy leather jacket and all. “But, ya know; he turned out to be a first-class jerk anyway. Go figure.”

“Excuse me? What are you talking about?” said the second ghost. “I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself properly—the name’s Bob Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, at your service.”

The first ghost ignored the proffered hand. “I blame that big jerk he hangs around with. Jumpin’ around like an idiot in a Santa suit. You wouldn’t never have caught me lookin’ like an idiot jumpin’ around in a stupid red suit.” He eyed Fraser Sr. meaningfully.

Bob Fraser straightened, the smile gone from blue eyes. “There’s only one idiot in this house, and it’s you, Yank.”

“Yeah?” Carmine’s lip curled. “You wanna rumble, Canuck?”

“Royal Canadian Mounted Police don’t ‘rumble.’” So saying, Bob Fraser hauled off and landed a very nice, regulation Mountie right jab smack on Carmine’s chin. Carmine keeled over backwards, crashing right through the Christmas tree... or at least, he would have crashed through the tree if he’d been at all substantial. He flew backwards through the wall, right out of the house.

Upstairs in his room, Ray brightened. “Fraser. Suddenly I feel really, really good!”

“Well, of course, Ray. You just played Santa. You’re filled with the joy of giving.”

“I don’t know about that, but I’ll tell you something, it’s definitely got something to do with Christmas spirit.”

“Whatever you say, Ray. But where did you get those toys for the children? When did you shop for them?”

“Oh, those were the equivalent of nine years of toys the elves owed you instead of all those books you got.”

“Ah. So in a manner of speaking, those toys were not from Uncle Ray, they were from Uncle Benton.”

“Hey, what does it matter, Benny? The kids got the toys, they’re happy, that’s what matters, right?”

“If you say so, Ray.”

“Um... hey, Benny. One of those gifts wasn’t from the elves. I think Vito is interested in someday growing up to be a cop, so I got him that play-cop set up. So, if he should ask you to play bad guy for him, I’d really appreciate it if you’d be a real good bad guy, and let him arrest you and stuff. And don’t worry; I have an extra key for that set of hand-cuffs, so if Vito’s don’t work, I can get you out of them in no time.”

“Why, certainly, Ray! Anything to encourage a young man into a career of law enforcement!”

If Ray worked it right, he could have Fraser in handcuffs and under that tree about the time Frannie got home from late Mass. 

 

THE END!

  
_“God Bless Us, Every One!”_

 

And now for something completely different: _Coming Attractions for stories that will NEVER be written!_

“Never Look a Gift Wheelman in the Mouth” is part of my never-to-be-written “Never” series, wherein each Due South episode was to be taken, re-written, and mocked in an over-the-top fashion. “Never” story titles include:

“Never Free Your Willie, That’s Just Rude”,

“Never Give a Wolf a Day Off”,

“Never Lose Your Edge”,

“Never Promise A Mountie A Pizza”,

"Never Give a Sucker an Even Deal",

“Never Take a Holiday In Chicago”,

“Never Count Your Eggmen Before They’re Hatched”,

“Never Hit A Hawk With A Handsaw”,

“Never Ask Victoria What Her Secret Is, You Don’t Wanna Know”,

“Never Accept an Invitation to Romance With An Annoying, Ditzy Chick Who Later Shows Up On Thirty Rock”,

and the pilot episode:

“Never Bump Off A Mountie’s Dad In The Wilderness, ‘Cause He’ll Track You Down, And Then Keep Making Repetitive Jokes About It In Third Season Until We All Want To Kill Paul Gross”.

**Author's Note:**

> When I posted this to the challenge all those years ago, the first comment I got on it was this: 
> 
> "It would have been better if Fraser had been handcuffed under the tree for Ray." 
> 
> So if you're a disgruntled slash-fan, please consider my rebuke duly noted.


End file.
